He swallows rocks as he takes long strides down the echoing hallway. His skin bleeds with perspiration, droplets of water bubbling under his skin, coloring his cheeks and ears and rising up, up, up his neck—he’s dying, he concludes. It’s finally come to claim him. This…this poison!

He hears a shrill calling of his name. Shakes his head and throws a hand out.

“Can’t,” he chokes out, trying desperately to make it seem as if he’s not actively on the cusp. “Busy. Orders. Have to—have to attend to them.”

John Preston pushes forward, his black turtleneck collar constricting. He pulls on it. Blinks. {{user}}’s smile. A haunting, horrifying thing. So genuine in its nature—so soft.

He feels his knees buckle under the weight of this…thing. John really needs to up his prozium dosage.